Somewhere In My Lifetime ...

Wow! It's been that long? Just reading this makes me want to go home and get out her "greatest hits" CD and listen to it all night long. Like everyone, I've been sad before, down before and proabably, without knowing it, clinically depressed before. But I've never, ever felt this damn bad. With all the fake singers and raunchy music out there, I sure do miss the sound of Phyllis Hyman's voice.

"When a diva in a fire engine-red dress caressing every curve kicks off the pumps that complete her outfit, you know she’s down to earth. Her simple gesture says, "I’m going to get comfortable, and I want you to join me -- and besides, I still look cute!" For Phyllis Hyman’s fans, it was like an open invitation to curl up on a sofa with her. They knew they were in for a good time.

She’d tell some jokes, whistle the hell out of "Living All Alone," throw out a catty comment about being mistaken for Angela Bofill and maybe even eat off your plate. But mostly, she’d pour out her heart in song: reinventing “Betcha By Golly Wow” or sharing hard-to-believe stuff about how she -- a woman who made brothers drool and shudder -- still couldn’t find a man.

But many missed the message in her music and her musings. They overlooked the serious side of her self-deprecating humor. They didn’t know that she was suffering from more than just some tired toes and weary feet. Her heart really was broken. Her curves had filled out more than she’d liked. Her brand of songstress was hitting sour notes in the mixed-up music business. And this thing called life? Well, it was much too much. So 10 years ago, she left fans waiting for her at the Apollo Theater in Harlem as she moved on to another stage.

Just days shy of her 46th birthday, Phyllis Hyman lay unconscious in her bed, a note and sleeping pills not far from her side. News of Hyman’s passing on June 30, 1995, ruled “an intentional overdose,” cast a pall over the Apollo and far-flung corners of the earth."